


Intuition

by tenienteross (ada)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Drunken Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ada/pseuds/tenienteross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning from India, Jacob pretends to be fine. Abberline notices. Then they hit the pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intuition

**Author's Note:**

> I am shipping this like there's no tomorrow. Sadly, I haven't seen many Jacob/Freddy fics out there (though most of them were GREAT, my sincere thanks) so I wanted to contribute in fixing that little problem.
> 
> This would be set in 1873, which is the year Abberline is transfered to Whitechapel and, if I remember correctly, it's also the year Jacob returns to England (or at least that's what I gathered from the DLC). There's a vague mention of things that you find out in the DLC, so beware of minor spoilers. But this is mostly about drunk Jacob and Freddy smooching. Because priorities. 
> 
> It's very silly, but I hope you like it <3

Whitechapel reeked of coal, rotting, piss and sweat. There was a permanent fog around its streets and dark alleys, one that made everything feel wet and cold. When Abberline left his office well past midnight, the lights from the lampposts barely lit every corner of the street, producing an eerie atmosphere. He could hear distant steps on the cobblestone, the passing of a lonely carriage nearby. But the alley seemed empty, even though Abberline had a feeling he was being watched or followed—although, according to almost everyone at the Yard, he was just being paranoid most of the time. Abberline disagreed. Since every case he had dealt with had been solved successfully, he could say his instincts did not fail him many times. 

And he was very confident this time was not an exception.

Walking down the street, he reached for the pipe kept inside his coat. There was no shortage of criminals who would dare to attack an officer of the law in the open, and Abberline had made very few friends in Whitechapel since his arrival.

His hand seeked out the metal touch of his firearm, hidden in a holster under the coat below his armpit. 

More footsteps, much closer. Abberline was done waiting and stopped, turning to face the alleged thug.

He found one, sort of.

Jacob Frye stood there in the middle of the alley, a devilish smile on his face. 

“Freddy!” Jacob called, closing the few meters between them with a stride.

Abberline blinked repeatedly, slightly puzzled to see the man—but was unable to hide a smile at the corner of his mouth. He had been right about his suspicions, which probably meant Jacob had been his usual self, climbing through the rooftops. 

Taking a puff on his pipe as he lighted it with a match, Abberline raised his eyebrows. “It is unwise to follow a police officer at this hour, Jacob,” he added, calmly. 

Jacob laughed, patting him on the shoulder as they resumed the walk towards the end of the street. Part of Abberline’s mind couldn’t help thinking that, somehow, he had missed that sound in the year he had been gone—that cheeky smile Jacob showed on his lips constantly, especially every time he called him _Freddy_ with mocked endearment. He tossed the thought aside immediately.

“Ah, but I hear _Inspector_ Abberline is as nice as an old lady, you see,” Jacob said, as they turned on the corner. There were no carriages or people on the street, the dense fog oozing a ghoulish aura to every building, brick and tree. 

Despite himself, Abberline chuckled at Jacob’s remark. “A hairy old lady, I presume?”

Jacob side eyed him, grinning. “Those are my favourite kind of old ladies, Inspector.” 

“I feared as much,” he made a pause, then stopped his feet. “What do you want, then?” Abberline asked boldly, wrapping his neck with the scarf he was wearing. 

Jacob put on his best wounded face, rubbing his hands to keep them warm. “I’ve missed you too, Freddy,” he snapped, smirking. “I thought you could use the distraction… and a pint. Come on, we got a lot of catching up to do.”

Abberline made an attempt to refuse the offer. Despite being off duty, it was late, he felt tired and his back started to ache. Tomorrow did not look like an easier day—there were no such days in Whitechapel as a policeman. But then he saw Jacob staring at him, expectantly. In spite of his mocking and teasing, he seemed genuinely happy to see Abberline again. 

They hadn’t meet in over one year, after all. He still had some qualms about collaborating with him and his shady secret organization. But this wasn’t about work, was it?

Sighing with a weary but happy smile on his face, Freddy surrendered. “Very well. To the Frying Pan?”

-

The Frying Pan was the pub where law enforcers, gang members, thieves and prostitutes could meet in one place without any major disaster, at least most of the time. The place was located in the intersection where Charles Street and Queen Elizabeth Street met, a hub where the people of Whitechapel could vent, laugh, yell and drink themselves into a stupor. Abberline was also certain he had seen a fair share of illicit activities, such as gambling and the sale of suspicious substances.

But he was off duty, he repeated in his mind, trying to have a good time for once. There were a few men playing music, the company was good. He should have been enjoying it. 

“So, how is India?” he asked finally, taking a long gulp from his beer. 

Jacob looked at the bottom of his glass with a strange expression, and suddenly Abberline feared he had made the wrong question. Jacob leaned back on his chair, spreading his legs under the table until he occupied all the space. “Too warm for my taste, but it was… nice. Seeing my sister was nice. Don’t ever tell her, but I really miss Evie,” he chuckled, drinking from his gin. He joked, though Abberline knew he wasn’t lying. 

“Can I ask… ” Abberline trailed off, not sure of his choice of words, “what were you doing there? Apart from visiting Miss Frye and her husband, I mean.” 

Jacob raised an eyebrow, amused. “ _Freddy_ ,” he hissed, a smug smile on his lips. Abberline had the impression Jacob’s voice shouldn’t have sounded so… sultry. “You are prying for information because you know I will be drunk in five minutes.”

Abberline pointed his finger to the six empty glasses set on Jacob’s side of the table, all of which had been filled with gin less than an hour ago. “I think you are already drunk,” he snorted. 

Jacob finished his seventh drink in one draught, a bit of gin dripping from the corner his mouth. Shaking his head, he growled after ingesting the alcohol and chortled. When he raised his head again, Abberline noticed his cheeks had a pink hue, his eyes more watery as well. 

“That’s why you have been promoted, Freddy. You have great intuition,” he babbled sheepishly. “Since you asked _so nicely_ and I am blissfully drunk, I will grant your wish.”

“Just don’t give me all the details. I still want to live without knowing in how many ways you and your sister can get away with breaking the law,” he added rapidly, though he wasn’t sure Jacob was listening at all. 

Jacob raised a hand to the waitress, a young and pretty redheaded girl, pointing at the empty glasses with a flick of his head. When he was sure the girl had noticed him, he faced Abberline again, crossing his arms on the table as he leaned towards him. He was not wearing his top hat, which rested on an empty chair next to them, and he could almost smell his hair and the alcohol from his mouth. Abberline had one of those sudden thoughts he always felt ashamed of—what it’d feel like to bury his fingers in that soft hair, caressing the scalp beneath it. It hadn’t been the first time, but since Jacob’s departure he had conveniently avoided thinking about it.

Abberline shut the idea down, blaming it on the two pints he had already drunk. The concept itself was… preposterous. Despite the _robust constitution_ of his family, he was not immune to inebriation. That was all.

“I went with a few of my lads, mostly the young ones,” he whispered in a low voice. Abberline mirrored him, resting his elbows on the wooden board. “We trained. Our brothers and sisters in India have their own tricks, so we learnt as much as we could,” he said, eyeing the waitress as she arrived with a new glass of gin. 

Abberline couldn’t conceal the note of surprise in his voice. “You are training students?”

“I am, indeed. I am an excellent teacher!” He shouted to no one in particular, raising his filled glass in an invisible toast. “Though I have a few… challenging cases. There’s one boy in particular, but…” Jacob trailed off, and suddenly he did not sound as drunkenly merry as a few seconds back. “I’ll figure it out.”

Abberline knew he could trust his intuition, and his gut warned him there was something off about Jacob’s behaviour. His sudden visit, the silent plea in his eyes to just go and have a drink, watching him getting intoxicated on cheap gin in less than an hour. 

Once more, Abberline would be right.

-

Walking a drunk Jacob around the streets proved to a more difficult task than Abberline had imagined initially. The man kept on talking, rambling and producing all kind of gibberish he couldn’t fathom even if Abberline made an effort to listen. Whitechapel seemed more threatening than before. Their breaths looked like smoke in the cold air of late autumn, his cheeks and nose freezing against the drizzle that fell from the sky, clouded in dark.

Their footsteps on the cobblestone resonated, breaking the sinister silence that surrounded the borough that late at night. When Abberline had decided it was time to leave the pub, Jacob had complained profusely, but he had finally managed to drag the man outside. Jacob was in no state of going back home alone and Abberline wondered where he actually lived now—he was certain he had kept the train when Miss Frye had moved to India, but a year had passed since Jacob had left for India and reaching a _train_ didn’t seem like a sensible idea at that moment. He had tried asking him, receiving more nonsense babbler as an answer. 

Luckily, Abberline remembered Jacob kept lodgings in Whitechapel and, as far as he knew, the room was still his to claim. Making a halt on their way, Abberline checked if he had any keys on him, so he proceeded like any policeman would do and searched every pocket on his coat, vest and trousers—to which Jacob, barely standing straight and leaning against a bricked wall, started giggling. 

_Giggling._ Abberline swallowed, a bit more agitated by the sound (and the fact he was pretty much touching Jacob all over) than he would ever admit. Finally, after what had resembled an eternity, he found a bunch of keys linked by a rusted ring in one of the pockets inside the leathery coat. 

Sighing, he hoped the trip to the lodgings would not be in vain. He was feeling dizzy as well, the beer clouding his train of thought and his eyesight. Jacob, on the other hand, was now completely incapable of walking by himself, each step closer to falling onto the ground. Clumsily, Abberline grabbed the man, who was now singing in a terrible voice a familiar tune he claimed his sister sang to him as children, and placed Jacob’s arm over his shoulders—wrapping the man’s back with his own arm in a tight grip to avoid falling down. 

They were so close, he could smell the traces of gin in Jacob’s breath, which felt strangely warm and _nice_ against his cheek. Jacob strengthened his grasp on him, clenching his hand in a fist around the fabric of Abberline’s coat, and ended up resting most of his body on him. And his mind was once again fogged with images he did not want to acknowledge, things that seemed not so impossible now that there were barely five centimeters between their lips. 

Abberline had to remind himself he was _drunk_. That Jacob was even _more drunk_ , but he couldn’t help a shudder along his spine. 

Jacob seemed to calm down a bit, and Frederick could almost swear he was snoring and walking at the same time. Abberline continued guiding his feet and Jacob’s through narrow streets and alleys, ignoring the heat and closeness of their bodies despite the freezing night that fell upon London.

-

“Freddy.”

He heard Jacob’s whimper from the other side of the room. Abberline finished lighting the last lamp, throwing the spent matchstick aside, and walked towards the bed around the corner. On top of a ragged and dirty-looking duvet, Jacob lied on his back, one of his arms resting on his forehead. Abberline skirted around the end of the bed, sitting down on the edge. 

The dizziness was going away, but he still felt too lightheaded to stand. “Need something?” 

Jacob rolled his eyes, inspecting his surroundings with a lost glare. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

“Your room in one of Whitechapel’s lodgings,” he answered patiently. Jacob was still over intoxicated, as his reddened jowls were proof. He didn’t need intuition to know that. “You should have some sleep, Jacob. And I will leave—” A hand on his mouth made him freeze mid sentence. 

Jacob’s hand, covering his mouth. “Shut up, Inspector.”

“ _Now_ you address me by rank,” Abberline muffled against Jacob’s palm as he freed his mouth, fingers closing around his wrist. 

Jacob produced a deep-toned chuckle. “It does sound _naughty_ ,” he declared out of the bue. Abberline felt his throat drying up, his lips parting to answer with a witty remark he couldn’t come up with. His hand was still grabbing Jacob by the wrist, and suddenly it seemed like too much physical contact.

 _Or not enough_ , a voice rang in his head. “You’re drunk, Jacob,” Abberline added, ignoring his subconscious. 

In a similar fashion, Jacob disregarded the statement, moving the hand that rested on Abberline’s lap to snatch his poorly done tie.

“I like it better,” he mumbled, curving his lips in a drowsy smile. 

Abberline scowled, swallowing loudly. “What?” He managed to question. 

Jacob lifted his chin, adding, “Your new less-hairy-but-pretty face.” 

_God,_ he could feel his cheeks flushing like he was a fifteen year old girl—and it made him feel so, _so_ idiotic he was getting angry at himself already. They had drunk way too much and that was all. He just needed to sleep it off. 

Then Jacob’s hand rose up, letting go of the tie and reaching for his face. He cupped it, gently stroking the corner of Abberline’s mouth with his thumb.

“Jacob, I have work tomorrow. You probably have things to do too. We need to sleep,” he hurried to say—but Jacob did not pay attention, completely focused on Abberline’s face with an unusual intensity in his gaze. “You will feel better in the morning,” he continued, hoping Jacob would stop touching him _and_ , at the same time, dreading the instant those fingers would move from his face. 

Jacob frowned, almost childishly. “No, I won’t, Freddy. Evie’s still in India and I am a terrible teacher, like my own father,” he blurted, as if the words had been festering inside him for a long time. 

There it was. Abberline was right one more time—something had been bothering Jacob and, as he suspected, it had to do with Miss Frye being so far away. This time, like many others, being right didn’t feel good. He could see hints of fear and regret in Jacob’s eyes, a rush of emotions he had never displayed in front of him before. 

Abberline took a deep breath, covering Jacob’s hand with his palm as he put it down, reluctantly. “Jacob, I have no idea how your organization educates its children, but you will be a great teacher,” he made a pause, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. “I have good intuition. You said it, didn’t you?”

“You’re awfully nice for a policeman, Freddy,” Jacob muttered, casting a stare on him that seemed, for a split-second, on the verge of tears. He made a mental note of not letting Jacob drink ridiculous quantities of alcohol when he had clearly been upset. 

Abberline answered with a chuckle, his hand still holding onto Jacob’s over his lap. 

“I try my best,” he hesitated for a moment, but finally voiced the question. “Did it work?”

Jacob snorted, his look shifting to the ceiling of the room filled with cobwebs and dust. He wrinkled his nose, as though a bolt of lighting had crossed his whole body. “I am still drunk as hell.”

“I have an inkling tomorrow will be worse,” Abberline replied, laughing softly. 

Jacob glanced back at him, twisting his mouth in a sulk visage. 

“Hey, I’m not going to be the only one with a bloody hangover here,” he clarified, a shadow of bitterness in his tone. 

Abberline didn’t pay attention and showed his best self-satisfied smile. “Luckily for me, my headache will be bearable.”

Jacob’s answer came in the sound of a growl, as he moved his aching body to lie on his left side, facing the closed window from where he could see the grimy houses that filled every inch of the borough. The mattress creaked under their weight, threatening to break down on the unswept floor—which had accumulated several layers of dust over the months. 

They didn’t talk for some minutes, relishing in the calm that the silence brought to their muddled heads. Abberline could sense the effect of the spirits slowly fading as the hours had passed, only to be replaced by a throbbing pain on his temples. His eyes wandered down to look at Jacob’s fingers, still laced with his own—skin warm and rough. Abberline could hear him breathing quietly, which meant he may have fallen in a drunken sleep already. 

In an unprecedented moment of self honesty, Abberline realised he did not want to let go of Jacob’s hand. He enjoyed the closeness, the warmth, the touch. He had assumed the feeling was wrong, that he should feel indifferent or even awkward. Still, he kept holding it, struggling to leave.

He was almost ready to stand up, grab his coat and leave the room when Jacob’s light snoring was interrupted by a throaty voice, breaking the peaceful silence. 

“Could you… stay?” he mumbled, holding up his head to look at Abberline. A few locks of hair fell over his forehead, eyelids half opened. His breath still reeked of alcohol, but Abberline didn’t find it disgusting. 

Abberline lips moved to give a negative answer. That’d have been the sensible choice. Instead, he said: “Alright. I will take the couch.” He also accidentally curved his lips in a silly smile, and Abberline hated himself a little bit more. “Need some water?” 

Jacob nodded languidly, lying his back on the mattress again, legs bended by the knees. Before taking him to bed, Abberline had removed his vest and now his linen shirt was wrinkled around its buttons. He had a dishevelled appearance that could only look charming in someone like Jacob. 

Yes, the word _charming_ had come to his mind as he watched Jacob’s chest raise with every breath, as he noticed the sleepy gaze of the man directed at him. Abberline faked a cough, freeing Jacob’s hand in the process, and got up. He walked to the bedside table.

Surprisingly, there was some water on a jar, which meant the lodgings had been used by some of Jacob’s associates or initiates. Whatever they were called. These people were trained to be high skilled professionals in the art of stealthy assassination, but their creed did not seem to care for hygiene, given how filthy the room was. The liquid inside the jar didn’t look fresh either. 

Abberline welcomed the new train of thought as a distraction, helping himself to a gulp of water before handing the glass to Jacob. 

The younger Frye sat down on the bed, making faces of discomfort with each movement. He covered his face with both hands, elbows on his knees. Abberline stood in front of him, extending his arm, glass in hand. Jacob finally accepted, knitting both eyebrows together. He swallowed the water in one take, as fast as he had drank gin hours ago. 

“Better?” Abberline dared to ask, as Jacob gave him the glass back. 

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Jacob replied, grumbling. “I’d rather have more gin, actually.”

Abberline placed the glass on the bedside table with a knock, burying his hands on the pockets of his striped trousers. “Well, you can drink more _tomorrow_. Although I’d advise against it, my friend,” he added, trying to put on a smile. 

However, Jacob didn’t make a sound, face buried behind the palms of his hands. 

Once again, his intuition was telling him Jacob may very well try to keep on acting like this—drinking all of his concerns and problems away. It made him feel uneasy. It troubled Abberline that the man who had returned from India had become a self-destructive wreck. After Miss Frye’s departure, there had been signs and warnings—but every other time they had worked together, Abberline had witnessed how Jacob had become more thoughtful in his decisions, considering his actions carefully. So he never realised how much the parting had influenced him. Now, it was painfully clear Jacob couldn’t cope with the idea of being in charge alone. Maybe it was simply with the fact that a whole continent separated him from his sister. 

Or maybe he was just exaggerating, as his colleagues would tell him. However, Abberline’s gut had barely failed him, even if he regretted it—now more than ever. 

He would complain about how much of a burden Jacob was. That it was not his job to worry about him or his sister or anything involving them, sure. But Abberline would still willingly keep a close eye on the man to notice anything strange beforehand. Being inspector of the worst borough in London didn’t seem enough work, so he also had to develop this sense of… responsibility over Jacob’s well being. 

It was stupid and it made no sense and Abberline blamed it, once again, on his own state of mind. His sober self also knew that was an excuse as good as any other. 

“I… I think I’ll try to catch some sleep,” he broke the ice, putting a hesitant hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “You should rest, too.” 

Jacob’s face showed up from behind the palms of his hands—this time less overwhelmed by the pain of his head, judging by the smile on his lips. Abberline felt some degree of relief at that sight. Jacob’s smug smiles and smirks were something he felt familiar with—it was part of him. It felt natural. It didn’t erase all the turmoil Jacob was clearly going through, but it helped to take some weight off from Abberline’s increasingly worried mind. 

He was ready to walk back to the entrance, where the old and probably uncomfortable couch waited for him, when he felt Jacob grasping at the hand he had put on his shoulder. Abberline’s feet freezed, turning his head to look at Jacob. 

“Anything else, Jacob?” He questioned, slightly confused. 

No word came from Jacob’s mouth. He got up from the bed with some trouble while his legs staggered as he approached Abberline, closing the little space that separated them. 

Abberline should have suspected something by then. 

Squeezing his hand, Jacob _barely_ managed to stand still. His hair was a tangled mess, and he attempted to make it better by running his fingers through it. Abberline watched him expectantly—maybe too enthralled by the gesture—as Jacob straightened up, clearing his throat. He didn’t release Abberline’s hand from his grip.

A dangerous smirk crossed his thin lips. “Can I kiss you goodnight, Freddy?” He dropped, as he had just asked for the time.

Abberline was one hundred percent sure his heart had stopped beating at that precise moment. His mouth dried up, his eyes wide open with surprise. Flustered, nervous. 

He considered his response, frowning and moving his mouth without letting out any sound. This was _utter_ nonsense and he had probably fainted on the ground, hitting his head and having a very strange dream afterwards.

 _Not a bad one, though_ , the voice in his head remarked. Abberline shook his head, eyes flickering up to meet Jacob’s gaze. 

“You…” he coughed, this time for real. “Why…?” That was all he managed to produce, shrugging, a knot blocking his throat. 

Jacob raised his arms, freeing Frederick’s hand—and then cupped each side of his head, his thumbs stroking over his jowls. He caressed his lips, his temples while his eyes looked at him with raw intensity, even frightening. Then, out of nowhere, Jacob started to laugh, as if a sudden joke had crossed his mind and _now_ he had got it. Abberline couldn’t even guess what was so funny—a word he would not have used to describe what was happening. 

Still chuckling, Jacob answered, “Why not?” 

His fingertips paused when they found the curve of his chin, recently shaven. He could feel Jacob’s breath closer than ever and took a step back, hitting the wall behind him. 

“Jacob, you’re drunk. Really drunk,” Abberline repeated, even though he wasn’t sure whether he was addressing Jacob or himself. “And going through a difficult time,” he emphasized. 

Jacob shot a smile at him, biting his lip. “You know that only children and drunkards say the truth, Freddy.”

Abberline swallowed very loudly. 

Jacob’s body had taken all over his personal space and, for a split-second, he inhaled the essence of the alcohol—making him dizzy and clouding his thoughts again. 

Leaning their heads together, Jacob whispered against his mouth, “If you don’t like it, just kick me in the balls.”

Before Abberline could process anything, he felt it—Jacob’s breath in his mouth. Warm, tasting of gin, moist. Surprisingly, he proceeded with care in a slow rhythm. Jacob was the embodiment of roughness, eager and impatient—but now was different. He trapped Abberline’s bottom lip between his teeth without nipping—just sucking him in the kiss as his tongue licked their lips, moaning. Jacob rubbed his thumbs over the corner of his mouth, down his neck, and his touch was so delicate he felt his skin melting under it.

Abberline should have kicked him in the balls with his knee. But, once again, he did the opposite, closing his fists on the collar of Jacob’s shirt and removing any inch of space between them. 

Shutting his eyes close, Abberline sank on the kiss, his breath hitching and loud against Jacob’s lips. He answered to Jacob’s softness with an unexpected eagerness, and suddenly he could only think about how _good_ this felt and how he didn’t want to stop. 

Maybe it was a spur of the moment, a consequence of their alcohol poisoning. For once, Abberline didn’t care, didn’t think about anything other than Jacob’s lips, eyes and hands all over him. Because it felt good. 

He realised it shouldn’t have come as a surprise at all. His intuition was always right, wasn’t it? 

Breathing heavily, Jacob grinned and hissed inside his mouth, “Now that is a _good_ night kiss, Freddy.”

“I... try my best,” he chuckled, returning the smile.

Jacob laughed. So did Abberline—and it felt _right_.


End file.
